Blackness
by Eosneve
Summary: His Majesty the Dark King Edmund the Just, injured, is musing in his study. (this is a homage to the story Forbidden Desires by Wildhorses1492)


Disclaimer: my thanks to C S Lewis for creating such an amazing universe as Narnia, and my thanks to Wildhorses1492 for her wonderful take on this universe. Edmund belongs to Lewis, but the Dark King, Emrys and Hadassa belong to Wildhorses (you'll find them in her story Forbidden Desires).

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 **Blackness**

Each artist would have considered that scene a very inspirational one, if they could have seen it (which of course they couldn't): in a dark, suffocating, windowless room, an even darker figure was sitting pensively, a silver crown on his head and a dazzling white page in front of him; at his feet, a red pool, similar to a melted ruby, was embellishing the floor. An innatural silence and stillness reigned unconquered: the young King could have been a statue (had it not been for his own blood draining out from an injury in his right side) and the torches could have been fake, since their flames were unmoving and their light was very weak. Light and darkness were fighting for the possession of the study and maybe of its resident, while the neat separation between the two opponents only managed to make the shadows stand out menacingly.

A breath of air coming from nowhere animated the scene. The flames flickered and a light effect on the white parchment (so white that it hurt) seemed to mock the dark-haired man, whose scary temper flared up. Without a second thought, he threw the inkwell on the page, looking fascinated as black ink made its way through the parchment -slowly but methodically soaking it-, formed a black trickle on the dark table and at last fell on the inlaid marble floor, where black joined red.

Edmund used this mix of ink and blood to paint his own portrait, before ruining it drawing a dark, huge hand over it... Rolling the page into a ball and throwing it away in the darkest corner of the room, he picked a new parchment and started to write, slowly and using his best handwriting, wishing his soul was just a piece of paper that Aslan could change whenever He wanted to. Things being as they were, though, he was just grateful that Aslan's grip was stronger than Jadis's: his mental and physical scars still hurt him, but the Lion was his anchor.

 _The fire of the sufference will make you either as pure as gold or as bitter as ash. Hope you're a piece of metal, since the flames will refine you in that case, but fear: being shiny and precious comes with a price. Aslan bought my life with His own blood and I'm now a jewel of His, but when the fire fades away, each metal become cold and unwelcoming... like me. I am silver, always silver, a tarnished silver._ _I often look at the nightly sky searching for the stars: when I only spot one little star twinkling and struggling to break the rampant darkness on its own, a wave of loneliness and coldness washes upon me, but those feelings are nothing when I compare them to my own feelings right now, when I am alone with myself, like now. And yet, I can't but be alone, even in the midst of a big crowd. I could scream, I do scream, and none will answer me, not even the echo. Only Aslan could listen to my calls, but He is not here. That's why whenever I close my eyes (my dark eyes, as dark as my soul), I wish they could stay closed forever: to find Aslan, wherever He may be. I had to build high walls and strong barriers to shield my soul, and my eyes are unwanted windows on my souls which have to be locked, in order to keep anyone out, but most of all to keep the blackness in and prevent the darkness from overflowing overwhelmingly ad swallowing everything good and bright in its path, making Narnia arid and empty, as I feel. This is my burden, to be eternally cold, alone and empty, to feel my heart consumed and torn away, to be said to have no heart at all, to know all of this is true and my fault. My siblings and my subjects are lucky: they can avoid me and I encourage them to do so, but I can't._ _The more badness and bitterness grow and bite my soul, taking possession of me, the more an intense cold crystallizes my soul in this condition, like darkness that not even the most brilliant light could enlighten, like snow that not even the hottest fire could melt... a dark, for too long treaded snow, not a pure white one._

Here the King was forced to stop, as memories assailed him. He leaned back on his chair, letting his right arm carelessly slip down until it was loosely dangling by his side, the quill leaving a trail of ink. He rubbed his eyes with his left hand to send away the unwelcomed images of his hunting past and dipped his cold fingers in his warm blood, but didn't feel the warmness he was seeking: the blood seemed to freeze at his touch. He had categorically refused that his wound was attended, because when his soul hurt, he needed his body hurt, too, so that when he healed his physical injuries, he could believe to heal his spiritual ones at the same time. Or maybe it was just a way to make anyone else aware of his illness. People rarely worried about something they couldn't see or touch. In any case, his life was now abandoning him, drop by drop. For some moments, for some obnubilating moments, he let himself drift away with the current of this fool idea, expectantly closing his eyes. But he was not the Just King for nothing: he couldn't rightfully take what was not his own, and his life, his blood belonged to Aslan, who had paid a high price for it, too high to be ignored. Knowing this, Edmund snapped his eyes open and finally pressed a handkerchief against his wound, then moistened his thumb and forefinger before using them to put out the candles on his desk, taking a sick pleasure while killing those tiny lights with his bare fingers. He remained in the dark, wondering whether this pain could disappear and waiting for something... He told himself this was just what he wanted, to be the Dark King, feared by everyone, and proud... He told himself he was waiting for Emrys, his faithful Tigress, the only one he felt comfortable with... But he was aware everything was a lie: he was waiting, just waiting for what he didn't know... not yet... And he was very surprised by this...

Elsewhere, a masculine voice was calling for a blue-eyed, sharp-minded girl, whose name was Hadassa...

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I'm not sure of the result, but hope you liked it. And now... go and read Forbidden Desires by Wildhorses1492!


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